The Weariest River
by Alien Emerald
Summary: You ask me to stay still, grow quiet as the mountains. I can hear the whispered prayers streaming from your mouth; they trickle from your lips to the mockingjays to the dry creak bed. But they will reach me only in my collapse, not because I can't go on, but because you have weighed me down. Some Peeta/Katniss, but mostly Gale/Katniss. Two chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**The Weariest River—A Hunger Games Fanfiction**

**Summary: You ask me to stay still, grow quiet as the mountains. I can hear the whispered prayers streaming from your mouth; they trickle from your lips to the mockingjays to the dry creak bed. But they will reach me only in my collapse, not because I can't go on, but because you have weighed me down. **

Red fingerprints smear on the rocks I touch, the vibrant crimson dulling gradually into warmer earth tones as the wind dries the shiny circles I have made, my lower lip held precariously between my teeth, waiting, wild with anticipation yet unable to move. The rocks are growing redder by the hour, my anxiety sharpening and the constant motion of _notch draw loose, notch draw loose, notch draw loose,_ the only thing keeping me sane as I try, _anything, _to stop tormented bodies burning, burning around me.

I lick my lips and taste the copper, feel how my tongue seems sticky against their dryness, imagine how they burn as if they're on fire, too. It has been years since Prim died, yet the explosion that killed her seems to burn within me every hour of every day, awake or asleep. After living my entire life for her, only for her—feeding her, volunteering as tribute, winning the games, staying alive, being _strong_—I find myself wandering through forests that burn, my projections of danger keeping me sane, my will to live only there when I have something—anything—to fight, to stay strong for.

But I know there are only so many hours I can sit and shoot at trees until my fingers bleed. I can only pretend for so long. Soon, I have to return to the house, the house that is being consumed—on the inside and out—by endless silence.

I stopped loving him long ago. I guess he never stopped, but we still don't speak.

I get up to retrieve my arrows, and just for this moment my reverie is broken. I can't pretend to run and fight something that isn't there forever. It wears on my mind and body, despite the hours I spend training as if I have to go to another games. As if I still have someone to fight for.

The sky is grey with the impending dawn. It's early enough that the birds are still quiet, the mockingjays that have flocked in fervor to my woods still nestled in sleep, the animals that come alive at night succumbing, finally, to the light. I pull my arrows out of the hard tree trunks and damp earth, trying to remember what I thought I was shooting at, but to no avail. My arms are trembling and my legs are liquid beneath me, the thought of returning to the house where I can no longer pretend makes me shudder. Things fight to overcome me whenever I blink my eyes, so I try to stay focused on the trodden path leading back to the fence, touching each damp tree, listening to each boot beat, fighting visions of the people I let die. There is so much fire. The blood on my hands is theirs. I hold my bow almost tenderly, imagining the old weapons found too late.

I drop to my knees. The grief is overwhelming. My throat stretches and stutters with words that won't come out, my body violently lurching, tears mingling with the dew perfectly formed on the grass below me. The explosions go off within me, tearing me apart, lifting memories from me I have fought so hard to keep down. I fall on the ground. The rocks become bodies, shaking the dirt off their backs where they have been buried. _Shaking. Trembling_. _Remembering_- I didn't bury her. _A shuddering breath_. Her body was torn to pieces.

The sobs are loud and not my own, but they resonate within my body with a different meaning, and I can somehow imagine it's her crying. _So, so far away_. I can do nothing. _Memories, just memories. But-_ I could have done something.

My bitten nails dig into the dirt, pulling up the roots, willing my pain to leak from my body. I dig into the roots of a dying oak tree, the golden veined leaves turning wrinkled and grey, the once majestic trunk bent under the weight of its last sorrowful days. I want some part of its pain, to feel something other than everything I have known, for someone to take it away from me. Because I can't pretend I'm strong like I used to be—like I have any reason to be strong, with nothing to fight for or against. I have faded into weakness like the tree that used to be so strong.

I've always had to be careful what I wished for, because soon he comes. His arms are strong and thick, I can feel them coiling around me like snakes, and I want for the briefest of moments for them to hold me even tighter. He starts talking, in soothing, careful tones, as he carries me back to the house, indifferent to the oak tree's tragedy.

Outside of the forest, District 12 feels heavy under blinding white heat. Maybe it's just the heaviness of my own body, but everything feels agonizingly slow. The shimmering streaks of wind in the abandoned district, shot through with the naked heat of summer, writhe like bodies in the air, an intense struggle and passion arising in nothing but the deepest golden vein of day. I feel lost in the fire of high noon as Peeta carries me back to the house, fervid winds kissing our skin and making us sweat, sticky with streaks of sunlight, as if we were drenched in honey.

Each step feels jerkier and heavier than the last. I can feel layers shedding from his skin, left behind in the heavy abandonment of our district, strength and compassion leaving him like layers of clothes being torn away by the wind. Steps away from the door, the last layer sheds, and he sets me down shaking, not because I am too heavy, but because he can no longer pretend. Duty and devotion had been shed twenty feet back, and I cannot blame him for finally turning in on himself in grief when I have done nothing but that for months. He leaves me at the doorstep, knowing full well I will go back to where I was, and he will have to don a coat of lies and pretend he doesn't love me anymore until the weight becomes to much to bear.

I have no one but myself to blame.

I stand wearily, my legs still too soft to stand without heavy shaking, and make my way inside the house. I only want to sleep, to curl up and not remember for a night and a day, but an envelope on the counter in the dusty kitchen gives me pause. It wasn't there before. And anything new in our lives, anything at all, is progress.

It's from the Capitol.

Or, what used to be the Capitol.

I have not been there in over five years. Everything I don't want to remember about my past resides in the Capitol; namely, Gale and my mother. I have spent all these years trying to forget them, to forget Prim, to immerse myself in Peeta, because, after all, he is the only thing in my life I can consider…well, not my distant past.

It's an invitation, as I suspected, to the Anniversary Gala of the downfall of the Capitol. Held, ironically, in the Capitol—in President Snow's former home. What a nice, intimate touch.

Peeta must have been out looking for me when it arrived. I peer out of the kitchen window to see if he is still outside, hunched in grief, but he has left without notice like I so often do. Unlike him, however, I'm not one to be concerned and go looking.

I run my fingers over the invitation, trying to imagine what it would be like to go back to the Capitol after all these years. If I can't walk in the familiarity of District 12 without falling to pieces upon seeing the burnt ruins of my former home, how am I supposed to handle seeing the place where everything—_everything—_fell to ruin?

Complete, utter ruin.

There is a thin piece of glass enclosed in the envelope. The late afternoon light is reflected as a perfect glare, and when I turn it slightly, I can see my eyes. There are dark shadows under them that no amount of minimal reflection or glare can conceal. My eyelashes are clumped together, my eyelids puffy, the quintessence of sadness. _Everything I have lost. _I remember, as if it were millions of years ago, how strong I once was. I remember it, _wish for it, _every day. Weakness meant death, and was to be avoided at all cost. I had to be strong to live. I had to be strong for Prim.

But, when your very reasons for existing are gone, what is the point of being strong anymore?

I lifted the piece of glass to my face, fingering the edges carefully.

_Thumbprint on the left, attending. _

I lifted my eyes for the briefest of moments, just in time to catch a black and white flash across the window, a fleeting shadow across my face- a sweetly-singing mockingjay that has known nothing of fire.

_Thumbprint on the right, not attending. _

The flames of the rebellion have consumed it all—Prim, all of my friends, my former life, my relationships, my _everything. _

I had another reason to be strong. They wouldn't consume me.

The next morning Peeta wakes me. He brushes his calloused hand over my bare shoulder, the weight of his body pulling me to the other side of the mattress, but I stay rigid, unable to even feign affection anymore. It's not like it used to be, when he climbed into my bed to chase away the nightmares that consumed us both, with the weary streams of moonlight filtering through dirt-caked windows, still barely able to chase away the darkness. That was years ago, and now every night I lie in bed awake through the night, listening to his breathing, waiting for dawn when he will leave and I can finally sleep alone. I can feel the chill in the air, as it is barely dawn, so I draw the heavy covers up over my chin and moan that I'm awake, he can say whatever he wants. Needing to make eye contact with me is a whole different battle.

"Katniss," he says, his voice more stern than I have heard it in a while, "you are not going back to the Capitol. You _can't."_

I rub my fingers over my eyes, trying to push the sleep from them, and wonder what my response is supposed to be. I've decided to be stronger, for myself, but is it strength to let the boy who still loves me command me? It might have been the strength of self-sacrifice if it was something mutual, but now all I see us as are bedmates with a scarred past and an obligatory future together.

"I'm going, Peeta," I say. I sit up against the wall, the mattress groaning with the movement. His left hand is closed around the invitation glass with a thumbprint on the left, dirty veins on sunlight reflecting on his blonde hair that I still find so beautiful.

"It's only going to open up new wounds. Everything you see will upset you."

"I can't stay here for the rest of my life. Just waiting, wondering what pain the next day will bring. What regrets."

"All of that is in the past, Katniss. All you have to do is forget and be happy."

"You make it sound so _simple, _Peeta, but it's _not_! I can't just move on and be happy, no matter how much you want me to!"

"You can't just try for me, can you? All you want to do is run into the woods and pretend you're fighting enemies that aren't there anymore, or back hunting with Gale. But all of that was _years _ago! There isn't anyone—"

"It doesn't matter that there's nothing left to do, because there's no one left to do it for!"

His face falls, the anger faltering for an infinitesimal moment, his eyes betraying his sadness. "There's me, Katniss. I still love you, yet every single day you do nothing but push me away."

"Peeta," I say, because I can't turn back now, I can't give him hope that one day things will be different, "you don't—"

"Don't tell me I don't, Katniss, because you know I do. I went through everything you did. But once again, all you do is think of yourself. You say you've lost everyone, but I'm still here."

"Peeta, I love you," I say, meaning, somewhere, some part of it…, "but I have to do this. I can't be weighed down anymore, not by my past, not by sadness, not by you…."

"Then go," he says. He turns away from me, the muscles on his back taut with the movement, his skin golden and smooth. His eyes meet mine one last time before he closes the door. "You're like a river that can't be stopped, a flame that still can't be put out…. But Katniss, you have to tire sometime. I hope, when you do, it will be here with me."

_Only once you have weighed me down, _I think. _Only when I have accepted defeat._

I hope that day will never come.

**AN: The next chapter will be out in the next couple of days! It got too long to make it a oneshot, so it's now a twoshot! Please, please, please review. All feedback is needed and appreciated. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the longer than expected wait. Please review and enjoy!**

**XX**

The train is just how I remember it. Smooth, fast, and utterly boring. It's only been five minutes since I left District 12, but all I can think to do is sit in my room and twiddle my thumbs until I can think of something better. There are people on the train with me, of course, paid workers that live in the former Capitol. At least they have their tongues.

I decide to order some food. There is still the same system of ordering as on my train to the arena years ago, and it seems little else has changed except for the menu. A dish of roasted quail with unripe plums and buttermilk is in my room in minutes, the flavors so rich I have to pause half way through stuffing my face to stifle the nausea. Although I have always been provided with enough food living these past years in District 12, I am rarely interested in it. I'll eat the bread Peeta makes on occasion, always so warm and filling, the touch and smell flooding me with nostalgia every time. But I have forgotten what it truly means to taste.

I am about to try eating again when there is a knock at my door.

"I'm not done yet," I say, slightly irritated that a worker would even come here in the first place. I'm sure they are enjoying food just as good as mine, and are well paid back in the Capitol, unlike the beautiful red-haired Avox girl I once knew, whose face I have long since forgotten.

But the door opens anyways to reveal my mother.

It is all I can do not to burst into tears. I leap from my bed and run to her, our arms encircling each other like they never forgot how, our bodies wracked with sobs, tormented with memories that have flooded to the present along with these scents and sounds of each other. And all I can seem to think is, _It's her, it's her, it's really her…_

"H-how am I going t-to handle being in the C-Capitol when I can b-barely…," I trail off, my voice muffled in her shoulder that has grown bony and frail.

"Of course you can handle it, darling," she says, her voice stronger, the same as I've always remembered it. "You are the strongest person I know."

I let her hold me for hours. Outside the moving train, moonlight filters through a thousand feathery clouds, like the silver scales of a sleeping beast. We talk in hushed voices about little things, like how good katniss tastes with rabbit in the summer, how I used to try and wear my fathers boots when I was only three, how Prim cried in anger and ran to find Gale the first time Peeta and I kissed. We both know there are so many things that need to be talked about again, but for now we are content to settle with all memories soft and gentle. Because who knows what I'll be facing in the Capitol tomorrow morning.

At some point we both fall asleep, still huddled together, and only in my dreams do I remember how I used to push my mother away. I tried so hard to be stronger than her. I didn't realize how good it felt to be weak, to let someone else be the strong one, until now. Because after so many years of having no reason to be strong, I can find myself regaining reasons in the simplest things.

It is dawn when the train arrives in the Capitol. Slowly, our faces lift, our eyes open, as does a sleeping beast when the steady rushing of a river suddenly stops.

I am escorted to my room without my mother, leaving her with the promise I will see her at the gala. We had both been brought to the building all 'elite' guests were staying in, and I am relieved that so far it feels nothing like being transported to the games. There are no people in the streets cheering for our arrival, or extravagant parties going on in broad daylight. The colors are more muted, the people I've seen so far less eccentric. Truthfully, the Capitol all together looks much less…obnoxious.

My room is no less plain. Stale dusk fills the room with the dregs of many days of solitude and quietness. The only color in the dimly lit interior is from the dress laid out for me on the bed, so incredibly breathtaking I have to turn away. All it reminds me of is Cinna.

I take a shower, struggling like I always do with the multitude of controls. I stay in until my skin is pink and rubbed raw. I find it weird that I'm dressing myself for a party without my prep team, but those days have long passed. I do my best putting on my makeup, jewelry and dress, and although there are machines to help me with everything, the final picture just isn't the same. The dress comes down to my knees in shimmering ripples, the deep crimson accented with gold, my entire back bared from shoulder to waist. It is…sexy, to say the least. A deft machine pulls my hair into a crown of ringlets, and I am somewhat pleased to see that, after all these years, I am finally able to fill out a dress without extra padding.

I am not the girl on fire anymore, even though I still can dazzle in red. I'm not a glowing ember, lying dormant in preparation for a conflagration. I'm not the leader or symbol of any rebellion. I'm no mockingjay.

I'm just Katniss.

I am both grateful and amused that, being just Katniss, I am no longer a glorified celebrity or idol. I am brought to the gala in a simple black car, with a man who kindly asks me how I'm enjoying my stay, who opens the door for me when we arrive, and who thankfully gives me a hand when the flashing of cameras and the loud music disorient me. For a moment my heart races, in a good or bad way I could not say, when I think all the cameras are pointed at me. But there are other people walking to the entrance, men and women so beautiful I think I might be dreaming, each paired with someone significantly less attractive so they look even more glorious. It seems simple, elegant beauty is the trend in the Capitol now.

I am still so startled with the production that I barely notice that my mother takes my arm. She looks beautiful in a silver, floor-length gown that accentuates her graying hair in an enchanting way.

"Ready, dear?" she asks. I nod, unsure. "You don't have to worry. You aren't a big celebrity in the Capitol anymore."

She's right, thankfully. A few cameras point my way, but most flash greedily at the hauntingly beautiful superstars, their smiles all brilliant and white. It seems obsession with idol figures has not changed in the Capitol, but at least there is no reason to adore these people except for their looks. They are not going to fight to the death in a few days. No one will watch any battle on television. And I can't help but think how hard it would be for a simple pretty face to start a rebellion.

So things have changed, mostly for the better, and this time around I am even able to enjoy the food knowing that no one is starving in the distant districts. My mother and I travel from table to table, sampling soup that tastes of pine and warmth in winter, nibbling on soft pastries with rich meat that melt on your tongue, sipping different drinks that you can _feel, _not just taste, and eating mouth-watering cakes that are so rich I can only take one bite before putting it down, realizing how long it's been since I've been this full.

A few people say hello to me, shaking my hand and welcoming me back to the Capitol. No one talks of my last act of perceived insanity. No one looks at me like I'm still crazy. Very few people even glance twice at me, more concerned with meeting the newest celebrity craze. I even meet a few of them, so overwhelmed by their charm that I can barely speak when one of the men asks me to dance.

"Katniss Everdeen," he says, his smirk lighting up his deep blue eyes. I simper. "The girl that started a fire. Quelled now, have we?"

I fight the urge to become a giggling admirer in his strong arms. "I think it was put out without me," I say. "I was forced to leave after I became insane, afterall."

He rubs a thumb over the gold dust on my cheekbones. My stomach drops as I am reminded once again of Cinna. "So your flames have yet to die, then," he says.

I smile sadly. "I hope they never will."

Something inside of me lets go. My heart begins to skip rather than just beat; it races forward, desire pressing against my belly, which groans softly under the insistent pressure of some forbidden, libidinous passion, incited by the bodies swaying and swelling like the sea, pushing against this man and me in a similarly fervid, anxious manner. All pretenses forgotten, I push my thoughts into the way my feet move, flowing perfectly with the man I still don't know the name of, our chests flush against one another and, only two strokes of the bow later, indifferent to the heat of the night.

The scent rising from the dancing crowd is something I can not seem to escape, no matter how many times I twirl or bow, and in it's essence I realize it is something oddly familiar. In that old familiar smell was contained a marvelously simple synthesis of the life of these people I have never known or loved; the distillation of their race, the quality of their blood, and the secret of their fate, imperceptibly mixed day by day with the passage of my own time. Years ago, when everything I loved became everything I'd lost, and I could smell the heat of rebellion dying into ashes. I decided I wasn't going to ashes as well. I rose up. I shot the arrow. And I could smell what I had begun, what I had ended. I would live and die in flames.

I think of Peeta, how he only wanted me to stop being the girl on fire, to wind down and settle into easy happiness. But I draw my strength from being enveloped in some internal struggle, from the scent of flames. He has weighed me down for so long, turned a rushing force into a weary stream, and it feels so _good _to be free.

I dance with the nameless man for so long that, by the time I say I have to step outside for some air, it is nearly midnight and most everyone has gone home. He kisses my cheek and says he'll look for me soon. I smile shyly and leave, still not really sure how to play at seduction. I'm pretty sure he's winning anyways.

Outside, the Capitol lights are shining brighter than all the stars and moon combined. The balcony is high up and overlooks most of the city, and off in the far distance I can even see the glittering rows of houses of District One.

I pull the straps of my dress off my shoulder, letting the wind cool the heat off my bare back. It has been a long time since I felt truly happy. Like nothing is holding me back or expecting something of me. Nothing from the past has yet to overwhelm me.

I guess peace only lasts so long.

There are no audible footsteps behind me because, even now, he still doesn't make any noise. But when he leans his elbows on the stone railing, mirroring me, I jump back in surprise. My hand comes up to cover any sound about to escape my mouth. I can't think. I can't breathe.

"Hi," I say, because _that _sure covers it after not speaking for five years. Good one, Katniss.

He is everything I remember him to be. Dark hair, light eyes. Years have made him more handsome than I could have ever imagined. He could be one of the beautiful Capitol celebrities. By the look of his suit, I feel like he probably is. For a moment I think I've lost my Gale to the Capitol—that he's been transformed, the old Gale I loved left in our woods years ago.

"Hi, Catnip," he says. I fall into his arms, and it seems like everything has fallen into place again. Like it was never changed.

We go walking along a steeply falling street, pervaded by the scent of violets, and the windows of the houses are unusually dark and quiet. I am so overwhelmed with happiness, finally being together with him; uncertain whether it is the magic of the night that lies like silver on the snow or whether it is the light of dawn… There are some things within me that I cannot even begin to name. Gale has come back for me, or I have come back for him, and something so exquisitely right seems to fall back into place again. It's like we are in our woods, our eyes and ears and movements one, and I can feel my heart falling into step with each beat of his.

"I've missed you," I say, and I mean it. He looks at me like he doesn't quite believe it. After everything we've been through, it would be hard to believe that I wished it never happened, because that's what I'm implying in those words. I suppose I mean that, too.

"I know," he says, turning in the halved light to brush a piece of hair from my face. The gesture is strangely intimate. I can feel my blood pressing against my veins again, as if it wished to break free from the barrier of skin and veins, to reach something unspoken and intangible. "I've missed you too."

"I was scared to come back," I say, thinking once again of Peeta. Our feet wind down the sloping street until we reach a quaint home, beautiful green trees enveloping the house on all sides, mysterious and alluring in the darkness.

"You didn't look scared dancing in there." I turn to him again, and there is something akin to jealousy in his eyes. I can picture the same eyes watching the television as I kissed Peeta, again and again, but when he had no hope to reach me. This time he is only inches away. He opens the door to his home and beckons me in, the inside darker than night, the scent of violets still seeping into the interior.

"Gale," I say, reaching my hand to his face, mirroring his, "don't do this now. We're finally together. After all this time. Can you let it go?"

"I have to let go of a lot, Katniss." His eyes open wide, his eyebrows tightening, a look of true sadness on his face. I move my thumb against his jaw, feeling a rough stubble that wasn't there five years ago. There is no light. No one is on fire, and yet I can feel flames burning in each of us.

"You can't let it weigh you down." I feel so tired, having come so far, as weary of the past as I am of the journey to come to the Capitol. I don't want Gale to be weighed down in the same way. I want both of us to flow onward—together.

Because even the weariest river will wind somewhere safe to sea.

His lips feel soft and fleshy against mine. The darkness is in our eyes, our mouths, all of our senses. It is cool and heavy, a bootdrop that quells a flame, and I can sense Gale doesn't want the light to turn on either. In this initially simple kiss, we are content. I am content not to be a mockingjay. I am settling within these ashes. I think of Peeta, of all the years I felt so oppressed by his wants and desires. Gale's lips move against mine, slowly at first.

And suddenly, I don't feel heavy or weighed down, so far away from all that has oppressed me. I am here, with Gale, and it doesn't matter that we aren't in our forest anymore, or that so many people have died and changed and gone. I can feel our bodies loosen simultaneously; preparing, ready to flow together and forward like liquid heat.

My fingers tangle themselves in his hair that is longer than I remember it. His thumb traces my cheekbone, sending shivers down my spine, and his whispers between kisses of, "I love you, I love you, I love you," feel so right whispered onto my lips. I realize that nothing has touched me to the core like this in a long, long time. I am consumed with passion, with memories, with a love that feels so fresh it might have been yesterday we hunted and kissed in our woods. But nothing is urgent. Above all, I am content.

His fingertips feel like the slightest shiver as they trail down my face, my arms, my bare back. His lips follow, kisses fluttering and burning like a candle flame, and I barely notice when he lowers me onto the soft down of his bed. Our skin is bare, the fervor and pleasure I feel transcending all I have ever known. I gasp at how hot his skin is against mine, how his muscles feel tensing beneath it like powerful snakes. I open my eyes and find they have adjusted slightly to the night. I can see his eyes, alive with passion, asking, wanting, needing.

"I love you, Gale," I say, breathless. "I never stopped loving you."

In the silence that follows, I can feel my heart swell with contentment with each rapid beat; within it, our future destiny. We still don't turn on the light. The incredibly distant shadow of dawn traces a silvery pattern in Gale's disheveled hair. Still naked, consumed with heat, I silently take his hand and hold it awhile in mine.


End file.
